


breathe into me

by Merlinnn



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: 4x04, Anal Sex, M/M, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 20:39:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18018053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merlinnn/pseuds/Merlinnn
Summary: Eliot helps Quentin clear his father's garage, or, a playful non-Monster re-imagining of that scene in 4x04





	breathe into me

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, so I really enjoyed that scene between Quentin and Monster!Eliot destroying the planes but I also wanted to see it with normal Eliot because I'm not a fan of Q/Monster El so here we are lmao

Quentin hadn’t expected Eliot to follow him to his father’s house. Only Julia really knew what was happening, the rest of the gang still preoccupied with the Monster’s whereabouts and childish games. The only relief had come when it had released Eliot back to them; an act of compassion, or some greater conspiracy? Quentin had no time to dwell as the call had come only hours later, and he’d left early the next day. Now, surrounded by his father’s ridiculous model planes and having been left by his mother once more, he wasn’t sure what he was meant to be feeling. Unadulterated relief at Eliot’s return warred with his simmering grief and deep seated _shame._ Sure, he hadn’t been himself but Jesus Fuck he had had one job and it was to not abandon his father, not like his mother had, and not in his final days like this.

_Where were his friends, Quentin? Why was no one at his funeral?_

Quentin had no answers. It was one of his worst fears made real; to die alone, be buried alone and to have no one remember him, and it had happened to his own father. Out of all the shitty ways he had been a son this had to top it. With a dark chuckle, he wondered if that included all of his father’s sleepless nights, unable to sleep incase that was the night he was actually successful in ending it. He moved through the room, picking up a British Spitfire model by its tail before gently tossing it back on the bench. What the fuck was he meant to do with all this crap? He didn’t even register the soft nick of the door as it slid open.

“Hey,” said Eliot, his voice smooth and soft and so, so removed from the childish timbre Quentin had become used to. He turned around, smiling despite it all as he took in the healthiest Eliot he’d seen in a while. He was finally out of the bloodstained shirt and lanky trench coat, and even if he still had long hair and the stubble, the gaunt, ill look had gone.

“Hi,” said Quentin eventually, nodding slightly as to invite Eliot into his father’s space. He had to duck slightly to avoid a low hanging plane and the sight broke Quentin into a smile. Eliot’s entire presence here broke him into a smile. He was _back_ and he was _himself_.

“Julia told me what happened, and I wondered if you’d want a hand,” explained Eliot as he came up beside Quentin at the workbench. The rest of the sentence went unsaid. _We’re still worried you might do something bad._

“Thanks El,” said Quentin, glad for his presence regardless of his true purpose for coming. “It’s also nice to you know, see you again. Real you.”

“It’s nice to be back Q.” said Eliot looking down at him kindly, yet offering no further discussion. That was okay by Quentin. Eliot would talk when he was ready.

“Okay then,” began Quentin, taking a step back and heading over to the stack of boxes his mom had left, “we’ll start with the ones on the ceiling” he said giving Eliot a pointed look, who chuckled goodnaturedly and already began straining up to unhook the planes that hung down.

 

Time passed peacefully in Quentin’s father’s garage. They worked together quickly and efficiently, taking down planes and packing them away. Eliot had asked if they should do it in some sort of order, but Quentin just shrugged; he knew fuck all about planes and wouldn’t even begin to know how to categorise them, so in they went however they were found. They didn’t talk much  but there wasn’t a lot to say and both were dealing with their own kind of bullshit. Simple companionship was enough. A few hours later most of the room had been emptied and there was a stack of boxes by the door of airplanes and airplane parts and whatever tools one needed to model airplanes. Quentin was working through the last display case while Eliot left him to his devices, instead choosing to flick through his father’s book collection. He studied Quentin from across the room, watching as he tossed, rather carelessly now, some Luftwaffe looking model into the box.

“Quentin,” he said, “How’s it going over there?”

It was a lame attempt at drawing Quentin’s attention away but it worked as he turned to look at Eliot with the same weary smile he’d been trying all day.

“I just never got it El, what’s with the planes? Like, how could he possibly find this fun?” he asked, gesturing to the boxes stacked high by the door, “And what gives him the right to just, just up and leave it all to me? Or for my mom to fucking leave it all to me?” Quentin’s voice was raising in pitch with every question as he began gesticulating more wildly as if he could conjure up answers. He hadn’t even realised he’d been angry at his father, as angry as he was at himself until now, angry for just… just dying when Quentin wasn’t even allowed to be Quentin.

“And, and it’s all just bullshit isn’t it, all this stupid stupid crap of his,” he continued, enunciating his point with the snap of plane wing. He paused then, looking down in horror at what he’d just done. At that, Eliot leaned over to a stray box abandoned by the bookcase and lifted a plane from the box and gave it a quick, visceral snap in half that brought Quentin’s attention back to him.

“Q, this isn’t your stuff and it isn’t your obligation. I’m sorry, but he’s gone now,” he said softly with an almost reverence, as though he wasn’t sure Quentin had quite grasped that yet. Wordlessly Quentin gazed at the halves of airplane Eliot now held, registering his words and registering this stupid, stupid garage. He reached into the box he’d just been packing and grabbed an airplane and hurled at the far wall with all his strength.

“Fuck!” he yelled, “Fuck fuck fuck!” he shouted as another three planes crashed into pieces in quick succession. Eliot smiled from across the room and began taking planes from the box closest to him, tossing them to Quentin to toss across the room and smash. Before long Eliot’s box was empty and Quentin returned to the one closest to him, methodically going through and throwing them. Eliot went and joined him, each tossing plane after plane. He looked up at Quentin who stood there breathlessly, chest heaving and a manic grin on his face as the adrenaline and cathartic energy bounded through him.

“El,” he said aloud, smiling cheek to cheek, before stepping up and swiftly closing the distance in a mouth crushing kiss. They hadn’t kissed in decades, or what felt like decades, since Eliot had turned him down and denounced their life together, and yet. Kissing Quentin was like coming home, and kissing Eliot was like finding a treasure long lost. Their mouths just fitted, as years of hunger and passion and anger raged to the surface, Eliot’s hand reaching up and curling through Quentin’s hair, grasping at the roots just so, and Quentin trying to untuck Eliot’s damn shirt and touch the smooth, taut skin of his stomach he remembered so well.

“Fuck, Q” said Eliot as they broke apart for a fraction of a second, enough for Eliot to look down into Quentin’s darkened pupils and run the pads of his thumbs at the soft circles beneath his eyes before leaning down to kiss him again, hands moving to pull at his hair and tilt his head back as he captured his mouth with his own, tasting Quentin’s secret, stressed cigarette on his tongue. He fumbled with Eliot’s vest and button up, _so many goddamn buttons_ , finally managing to pull the ensemble apart and rip it from Eliot’s shoulders, hands running over his torso and carding through his dark chest hairs as Eliot leant down and sucked at the skin of Quentin’s exposed neck, earning a sharp inhale in return. He paused briefly enough to pull Quentin’s sweater over his head in one swift move before returning to the opposite side of his neck for a matching mark before standing back up to admire his handiwork. Quentin grinned up at him, reaching back to claim his mouth again as he stood on tippy toes, hands pulling on Eliot’s neck to bring him closer until they both seriously misbalanced and came crashing ungracefully to the floor, Quentin laughing as he narrowly missed thwacking his head.

“I guess we’re a bit out of practice,” said Eliot, braced over Quentin’s form, watching him giggle from the pile of plastic bits.

“It’s only been 50 years or so,” responded Quentin, running an arm up and over Eliot’s bicep, caressing over his shoulder blade and tugging him closer as he arched up into him, arousal pushing through his jeans.

“I’m sure we’ll manage somehow though,” laughed Eliot as he returned to kissing Quentin, hand snaking between their bodies to palm at Quentin’s jean-clad crotch as Quentin arched up into the touch with abandon. Eliot made quick work of Quentin’s zipper and slid off his jeans and boxers as he lay there watching, unashamed and unbashful as his hard cock bounced against his stomach. The whole action was so _familiar_ it tugged at both of them as Eliot struggled out of his own slacks, soon getting them off and past his feet. He didn’t have time to worry about his socks just now, instead pressing back as close as he could get to Quentin, grinding his own cock down against Quentin as he kissed him wetly, rocking his hips and feeling Quentin jerk upwards in response.

“Please Eliot, fuck me,” said Quentin earnestly, hands idling at the soft curly hairs at the base of his neck as he continued to jerk his hips upwards trying to gain any friction.

“Are you sure?” whispered Eliot, stilling his movements briefly to gaze at where Quentin lay, lips livid red and legs spread from pure subconscious remembrance. Quentin nodded, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Make it fast, El, I want to,” he said, eyes opening to look up at him.

“Okay,” whispered Eliot, leaning back on his haunches to quickly conjure a packet of lube and condom from inside his jacket. He tore the lube open as Quentin watched, languidly stroking at his cock. Gently, Eliot ran his index finger over Quentin’s perineum, soft strokes he knew he loved, before pushing inside of him with two fingers. Quentin gasped aloud and bit at his bottom lip, hand stilling briefly at the burn before stroking again in rhythm with Eliot’s rough movements as he crooked his fingers, reaching up to capture Quentin in an open-mouthed kiss as he brushed against his prostate, Quentin panting beneath him with the motion of Eliot’s hands and the rocking of hips in return.

“Please Eliot,” he mewled, hand tight in Eliot’s hair as he ruthlessly moved his fingers inside him, repeatedly brushing up against his prostate on every motion. Eliot laughed quietly, withdrawing his fingers to a scandalised look from Quentin, who tried to scoot his ass back up from the sudden loss. Eliot ripped open the condom and deftly rolled it over his cock before moving down, Quentin’s legs instinctively tightening over his hip bones and with a quick motion Eliot pushed inside Quentin, stretching him wide and causing a heady groan to escape his throat. Quentin’s hands slowly unclenched from their death grip on Eliot’s biceps and he rocked out and slammed back in, knocking Quentin’s breath even as his hips moved back with every motion, seeking as much contact as he could.

“Don’t stop,” he said weakly and Eliot had no intention, savouring Quentin’s every expression as he continued moving and set a punishing pace, Quentin moaning breathlessly on every push into him and with every brush of his cock against his prostate as Eliot effortlessly fucked him into the floor. With as much self-will as he could muster, Quentin reached up between their bodies to stroke at his cock, the dual sensation rising low in his belly, tightening with every thrust of Eliot inside him, the rough burning and the sweat slicked body above him and the smell of his hair so very, very _Eliot_.

“Fuck, fuck,” he grunted rapidly, pulling on his cock harder as he came, hips jerking into his orgasm of their own accord as he lost all sense of being and person except for the feeling of Eliot tight inside him.

“Quentin,” whispered Eliot against his throat as he tightened around him, and Eliot was coming, hot and tight and deep, hips stuttering as his arms gave way briefly.

“Fuck,” said Eliot through the ringing in his ears, head turning to gaze at Quentin blissfully spent, legs spread around his weight as though he belonged there. A few seconds passed in panting silence as both came back to themselves.

“I think we remembered okay,” murmured Quentin eventually, voice hoarse and dry as he opened his eyes to the bright lights of the garage and remembered where they were.

“Mhmm,” was his only response as Eliot peeled himself away to dispose of the condom, legs shaky and weak. Quentin remained on the floor, surrounded by the shattered remains of his father and felt a hot tear roll down his cheek, fist pressed close to his mouth. He didn’t quite know what to do now, what to tell his mom, how to even clean up this whole mess but as Eliot came back to him, settling down naked on the floor beside him to pull him close to his side and run his fingers through his hair, Quentin felt more at home than he ever had before.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Also this is one of my first attempts at writing anything remotely smutty and definitely the first time I've published any so genuinely any constructive criticism/advice is so, so welcome like pls help me improve!!


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